


Assignations

by vigilantejam



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Facials, Fingerfucking, Frottage, M/M, Shame Edward Little Power Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/pseuds/vigilantejam
Summary: Or, Five(ish) Things Solomon Tozer Called Edward Little
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	Assignations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/gifts).



The thing about greatcoats is you can't tell what's under them. You can imagine whatever you want, that's a mark in their favour at least, but sometimes you get down to it and find the contents rather disappointing. These thoughts cross Solomon Tozer's mind as he boards Terror and attempts to size up the officer standing on the deck.

“It's Hodgson, isn't it?” Sol says, with a cock of his head as he hands over his papers.

The man's head is turned down and his eyebrows do not furrow but rather raise in something of a baleful expression. Sol watches him scan the document and arrange his features into something more authoritative.

“Little,” the officer says, clearing his throat and raising his chin.

Sol lets his eyes take a long roving look down the man's frame, from his pretty eyelashes to his long legs and polished boots. And back up over the layers of uniform bundled into the promising greatcoat. He's not shy in what he's doing and he wonders how much he will get to see of the lieutenant.

“My mistake,” he says, taking his papers back.

Little takes a beat, his face blank and open as Sol walks away.

“It's Lieutenant Little,” he calls after Sol, the volume and confidence in his rank coming just a moment too late to have much meaning.

Sol waves over his shoulder without looking back as he heads below.

*********

The marines and mates are hauling and carting the crates back on to the ships, the first light of spring warming their backs. Pilkington stumbles Sol catches him and drops the load.

“Try to keep it moving over there,” comes the call from ahead.

Lieutenant Little slows his approach when he sees Sol, although it does nothing to curb the grumbling of the men as they gather themselves together. Sol chirps along with them.

“Alright, keep your knickers on Lucy, we're getting there,” he laughs.

Little catches his arm and tugs him out of the hearing of the marines. His fingers twist into the loose linen of Sol's shirtsleeve, a familiar sensation to them both, and he steps closer than he needs to to deliver his reprimand.

“Not in front of the men,” he growls into Sol's ear. “Or I'll write you up for insubordination.”

Sol inhales, the soft sound lingers in the suspended second between them. Then he shrugs out of Little's grip.

“Just between us then,” he smirks.

A smile twitches at the edge of Little's scowl and Sol drops his head in faux deference.

“Dismissed, Sergeant.”

*********

Hickey told him when it's quiet. Who you can expect to see at any hour. Sol doesn't know how he managed to lure Little down here but the man's eyes are wide with anxiety and arousal.

“Not a sound,” Sol instructs, helping him out of his jacket, which he folds neatly to one side, and Little nods. “You know how to keep quiet, don't you?”

It's a shame, because the few sounds Little has made Sol has really enjoyed.

Sol pulls at Little's shirt tails until they're loose, pulls his braces off his shoulders. Little just watches him, silent and obedient, a flick of his tongue wetting his lips.

“Turn around,” Sol tugs at Little's trousers, and hears the slight hitch of breath at the cold.

Little's arse is toned and strong, like all of them. Up and down ladders, standing to attention, patrolling to keep warm. And pale as the moon, obviously. There's definitely more meat on him than Hickey has, smooth and virgin and unravaged. Sol imagines the lashes for a second, down here in the hold, Little bloodied and secret, literally bent over a barrel for him. Sol drops into a squat and bites hard, his teeth and fingers digging in to the meat of Little's thighs as he chokes back a whimper.

He spits a hot wet gob down Little's crack, and works in two fingers quickly. Little's whimpers turn to huffing and groaning, too deep, too serious.

“Shut up,” Sol orders and the noise stops.

He closes his eyes, and ruts against Little's hip, fingers deep into the heat of him, bruising him with slow rhythmic shunts against the barrels and crates.

When he spills it's with Hickey's name on his lips.

*********

Ned's already turned his back when Sol catches his shoulder.

“No, I think I want to see you,” he murmurs and it only takes Ned half a second to drop to his knees.

He looks up at Sol with his cow eyes, pleading where his voice has never let him, and Sol cups a hand around his jaw. He runs his finger up the side of Ned's neck, brushing into the shaggy strands of hair that have started curling around his ears, he rubs his thumb in an arch over Ned's cheekbone, tightens his grip and Ned's mouth falls open. God, he's pretty, pliant. Sol really hasn't made enough of that.

He keeps his hand in Ned's hair while he pulls at his slops string with the other. Ned's fingers join his, chapped callous-rough and clumsy by the weather. He doesn't say a word when Sol's prick is freed, but moans and whines as he takes it in his mouth before Sol's even fully hard. His eagerness is intoxicating and Sol steadies himself on Ned's shoulder, lets him control it. But Ned just pushes forward, his nose bumping hard and uncomfortably against rough waxed cloth, his hand gripped into the back of Sol's thighs and Sol's prick pressed against the back of his throat. He holds there and Sol counts the seconds to stop himself unloading so immediately until Ned pulls back with a gasp and a trail of spit and mouths up at Sol with shining lips.

_Please._

Sol grunts and squeezes again on Ned's shoulder, and when Ned takes him down again he shifts his hips forwards, watches Ned's eyes go wide and settle, his cheeks hollow then relax. He fucks again and Ned blinks, slow and warm, and nods. Sol can't hold back then as he thrusts into Ned's open mouth again and again. He feels the resistance in Ned's shoulder when he stops holding himself up and lets himself be used. The rustle of their clothing and Sol's panting and the wet obscene noises fall into time. Ned's mouth is sloppy loose, spit gathering at the corners and starting to run into his beard.

“You're so _good_ ,” Sol whispers, frayed and harsh. Ned groans plaintively in response, his eyes glassy with tears.

“You're good,” Sol says again. “And you're mine.”

He shoves a thumb into Ned's mouth and opens him wider. He feels Ned's tongue push up against him and he's falling.

The first juddering pulse spills down Ned's throat and Sol gathers everything within him and pulls back to paint Ned's face with the last spatters. It lands in a string over Ned's lips and nose, and drops slide into the dirt and creases of his forehead. One trickle drips from his brow to his eyelashes. Ned's heaving in breaths when Sol lets go he falls forward on to his thigh, sticky and heavy and hot. Sol steadies him there for a moment with a hand in his hair, then steps back to put himself away. He squats down to where Ned is kneeling and kisses his eyelids, kisses his mouth. He doesn't care much for the taste, but he needs the feeling of those stretched-tender lips on his.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” gruff and ragged on his ruined throat.

He's a man of few words and there are so few of them left. It's the air that makes him rasp his orders.

*********

“That's your name, isn't it? Edward?”

He's pleased with the effect it has. Edward is stopped in his tracks and it's more than just Sol's prick and death that splits him. Sol has choices too. He could warn Edward, and stay.

It's Edward's silence in the end. If he'd tried maybe Sol would have gone with him, but he just did nothing.

“Look out,” Sol says, too late, too callous, too empty.

Maybe Edward's reflexes would be quicker, but of course they weren't.


End file.
